


The Barricades Arise

by crimsondust



Series: Fragments from the daily lives of Les Amis de l'A B C [5]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, July 1830, July Revolution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-07-27 04:02:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7602649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsondust/pseuds/crimsondust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bahorel is injured during 1830s July Revolution, Jehan keeps him company.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Barricades Arise

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic about the two of them. I would be interested to hear comments and feedback as I am planning on writing a detailed one when work and time permit.

**Bahorel and Jehan**

Jehan was nothing if not intrepid when the situation demanded and Bahorel had never in his life shied away from a fight. They found themselves at the barricades and found their courage matched up to the task.

Bahorel would even keep his boxing gloves near his bedside table in readiness and often humourously challenged people to a fight. In the early hours of 27 July, his desire for a fight or better yet a rebellion, was satisfied. He waved his carbine in the air as the shots were fired from across the barricade. 

'I have the spirit of the peasants in me, you will never be able to crush us. Vive la Republique.'

A stray shot ricocheted off the edge of the building and landed itself firmly in Bahorel's arm.

'That was a shot that would be worthy of a lawyer, a sneaky attack when a fellow was not looking.' Bahorel was still shooting at the barricade, 'Now my shirt also matches my waistcoat. This turned out to be a better choice of colour than the one I was on the verge of choosing in the morning.' He shouted, ducking from the bullets.

A cannon sounded in the distance and gunpowder covered the air causing him to cough. Courfeyrac went to him as there was a momentary lull in the firing, 'You should have your arm seen to by citizeness Dechanier.'

Bahorel glanced towards the back. There were several labyrinthine narrow streets crisscrossing Rue Saint-Denis and Rue Saint-Martin, here the people had constructed a small makeshift first-aid camp, supervised by an able former nurse Dechanier. A few men were involved in fashioning bullets from gunpowder there as well.

'It is nothing, my dear Courfeyrac, just a little bruise.'

He continued to challenge the ongoing shots with his tongue as well as his carbine. It took a stern order from Enjolras for Bahorel to have his arm attended to.

He found Jehan sitting there having his forehead bandaged. He sat down beside him. 

Even amongst the grapeshots, the ringing from the cannon, the bullets flying everywhere, Jehan had found time to recite poetry. He was waxing eloquently about the universe and how everything in it was significant and important, even to the smallest molecule.

As he saw Bahorel, Jehan smiled. 

'You are wounded too, Bahorel?'

'Only a mild scratch.'

Jehan smiled and shook his long hair.

'It is comforting to see the women fighting for liberte alongside men.' he began. There were a few women who were helping with the bandages and minor surgical procedures and a few who were fashioning bullets but there was a small band of women led by Marie Deschamps who were also involved in the fighting.

'Fraternite.' Bahorel grinned, 'Women deserve as much rights under a Republic as a man does. Women are part of the working class too. One cannot fight for rights for one without fighting for the rights of the other.'

'Your mistress is having a positive affect on you.' Jehan laughed, 'I admire the courage of women for facing so much opposition and yet carrying on. There will be stories written about that in the times to come, I hope.'

Bahorel winced in pain as a liquid was applied to his wound and the nurse prepared to stench the flow of blood by removing the bullet.

'Talk to me Jehan.' he grabbed his friend's hand as the scalpel made a cut in his arm. 

Jehan talked. He talked of the odd shapes of clouds that he often followed while walking around the streets, of walking through fields of wildflowers, he talked of Dante and Aeschylus. Jehan described an old building he had walked past one day when he had almost gotten lost and it was Bahorel's turn to transform into a poet and discourse about the Gothic architecture he admired. To hear him talk about buildings, it was as if he was describing a beautiful woman.

Jehan laughed at his earnestness.  

He talked wistfully of his pot of flowers, lilies mostly, that he kept on the windowsill of his lodgings and wondered if someone would water them should he perish today. He talked of his love for the Republic and the rights of the poor with ardent passion. His voice grew soft and mild as he talked about Phillippe, Georges, Jacques and a few others that had given their lives for the cause so far. Bahorel listened to the melodious voice of his friend and found comfort therein as his arm was stitched up.

'Sometimes I dream about living in a time of peace but then my verses would not have as much power as they do now.' Jehan told him.

'We were destined for this, Jehan,' Bahorel got up and straightened his waistcoat. He would never go into battle without paying proper attention to his dressing, he smiled.  

Jehan squeezed his hand as they both walked to their positions at the barricade.   

**Author's Note:**

> Marie Deschampes was a poor laundress who fought bravely at the Barricades of 1830.  
> Read more about her here: https://www.ohio.edu/chastain/dh/frenchwo.htm


End file.
